Willy Reilly. William Carleton

if he was, you would have no objection to say yes, my girl.”

      “I look to the disposition, papa, to the moral feelings and principles, more than to the person.

      “Well, Helen, that's right too—all right, darling, and on that account Sir Robert must and ought to be a favorite. He is not yet forty, and for this he is himself my authority, and forty is the prime of life; yet, with an immense fortune and strong temptations, he has never launched out into a single act of imprudence or folly. No, Helen, he never sowed a peck of wild oats in his life. He is, on the contrary, sober, grave, silent—a little too much so, by the way—cautious, prudent, and saving. No man knows the value of money better, nor can contrive to make it go further. Then, as for managing a bargain—upon my soul, I don't think he treated me well, though, in the swop of 'Hop-and-go-constant' against my precious bit of blood, 'Pat the Spanker.' He made me pay him twenty-five pounds boot for an old—But you shall see him, Reilly, you shall see him, Willy, and if ever there was a greater take in—you needn't smile, He en, nor look at Willy. By the good King William that saved us from Pope, and—ahem—I beg pardon, Willy, but, upon my soul, he took me completely in. I say, I shall show you 'Hop-and-go-constant', and when you see him you'll admit the 'Hop,' but the devil a bit you will find of the 'Go-constant.'”

      “I suppose the gentleman's personal appearance, sir,” observed Reilly, glancing at Miss Folliard, “is equal to his other qualities.”

      “Why—a—ye-s. He's tall and thin and serious, with something about him, say, of a philosopher. Isn't that true, Helen?”

      “Perfectly, papa,” she replied, with a smile of arch humor, which, to Reilly, placed her character in a new light.

      “Perfectly true, papa, so far as you have gone; but I trust you will finish the portrait for Mr. Reilly.”

      “Well, then, I will. Where was I? Oh, yes—tall, thin, and serious; like a philosopher. I'll go next to the shoulders, because Helen seems to like them—they are a little round or so. I, myself, wish to goodness they were somewhat straighter, but Helen says the curve is delightful, being what painters and glaziers call the line of beauty.”

      A sweet light laugh, that rang with the melody of a musical bell, broke from Helen at this part of the description, in which, to tell the truth, she was joined by Reilly. The old man himself, from sheer happiness and good-humor, joined them both, though utterly ignorant of the cause of their mirth.

      “Aye, aye,” he exclaimed, “you may laugh—by the great Boyne, I knew I would make you laugh. Well, I'll go on; his complexion is of a—a—no matter—of a good standing color, at all events; his nose, I grant you, is as thin, and much of the same color, as pasteboard, but as a set-off to that it's a thorough Williamite. Isn't that true, Helen?”

      “Yes, papa; but I think King William's nose was the worst feature in his face, although that certainly cannot be said of Sir Robert.”

      “Do you hear that, Reilly? I wish Sir Robert heard it, but I'll tell him—there's a compliment, Helen—you're a good girl—thank you, Helen.”

      Helen's face was now radiant with mirthful enjoyment, whilst at the same time Reilly could perceive that from time to time a deep unconscious sigh would escape from her, such a sigh as induced him to infer that some hidden care was at work with her heart. This he at once imputed to her father's determination to force her into a marriage with the worthy baronet, whom in his simplicity he was so ludicrously describing.

      “Proceed, papa, and finish as you have begun it.”

      “I will, to oblige and gratify you, Helen. He is a little close about the knees, Mr. Reilly—a little close about the knees, Willy.”

      “And about the heart, papa,” added his daughter, who, for the life of her, could not restrain the observation.

      “It's no fault to know the value of money, my dear child. However, let me go on—close about the knees, but that's a proof of strength, because they support one another: every one knows that.”

      “But his arms, papa?”

      “You see, Reilly, you see, Willy,” said the squire, nodding in the direction of his daughter, “not a bad sign that, and yet she pretends not to care about him. She is gratified, evidently. Ah, Helen, Helen! it's hard to know women.”

      “But his arms, papa?”

      “Well, then, I wish to goodness you would allow me to skip that part of the subject—they are an awful length, Willy, I grant. I allow the fact, it cannot be denied, they are of an awful length.”

      “It will give him the greater advantage in over-reaching, papa.”

      “Well, as to his arms, upon my soul Willy, I know no more what to do with them—”

      “Than he does himself, papa.”

      “Just so, Helen; they hang about him like those of a skeleton on wires; but, on the other hand, he has a neck that always betokens true blood, long and thin like that of a racer. Altogether he's a devilish interesting man, steady, prudent, and sober. I never saw him drink a third glass of—”

      “In the meantime, papa,” observed Helen, “in the enthusiasm of your description you are neglecting Mr. Reilly.”

      Ah, love, love! in how many minute points can you make yourself understood!

      “By the great William, and so I am. Come, Willy, help yourself”—and he pushed the bottle towards him as he spoke.

      And why, gentle reader, did Reilly fill his glass on that particular occasion until it became literally a brimmer? We know—but if you are ignorant of it we simply beg you to remain so; and why, on putting the glass to his lips, did his large dark eyes rest upon her with that deep and melting glance? Why, too, was that glance returned with the quickness of thought before her lids dropped, and the conscious blush suffused her face? The solution of this we must also leave to your own ingenuity.

      “Well,” proceeded the squire, “steady, prudent, sober—of a fine old family, and with an estate of twelve thousand a year—what do you think of that, Willy? Isn't she a fortunate girl?”

      “Taking his virtues and very agreeable person into consideration, sir, I think so,” replied Reilly in a tone of slight sarcasm, which was only calculated to reach one of his audience.

      “You hear that, Helen—you hear what Mr. Reilly—what Willy-says. The fact is, I'll call you nothing but Willy in future, Willy—you hear what he says, darling?”

      “Indeed I do, papa—and understand it perfectly.”

      “That's my girl. Twelve thousand a year—and has money lent out at every rate of interest from six per cent. up.”

      “And yet I cannot consider him as interesting on that account, papa.”

      “You do, Helen—nonsense, my love—you do, I tell you—it's all make-believe when you speak to the contrary—don't you call the curve on his shoulders the line of beauty? Come—come—you know I only want to make you happy.”

      “It is time, papa, that I should withdraw,” she replied, rising.

      Reilly rose to open the door.

      “Good-night, papa-dear, dear papa,” she added, putting her snowy arms about his neck and kissing him tenderly. “I know,” she added, “that the great object of your life is to make your Cooleen Bawn happy—and in doing so, dear papa—there now is another kiss for you—a little bribe, papa—in doing so, consult her heart as well as your own. Good-night.”

      “Good-night, my treasure.”

      During this little scene of affectionate tenderness Reilly stood holding the door open, and as she was going out, as if recollecting herself, she turned to him and said, “Pardon me, Mr. Reilly, I fear you must think me ungrateful; I have not yet thanked you for the service—the service indeed so important that no